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“Do you live around here?” the videographer says.

“No, and neither do you, so take that camera–”

“Do you know Lucy Callahan?”

Marco doesn’t miss a beat. His brow scrunches. “Is that the old lady you just assaulted?”

“No, it’s a woman who lives here. Around your age. Red hair. You might know her as Genevieve Callahan.”

“Did you hear me say I’m not from this neighborhood?

I’m looking for a cookie shop. My girlfriend sent me halfway across the city to buy cookies at some place around here.

I’d like to get there before they close.

I’d suggest you move along, because if you’re still harassing old women when I come back this way, I’m calling the police. ”

Marco strides off in the direction of Biscottificio Innocenti, just down the street.

The videographer resumes speaking breathlessly to his future audience, filling the video clip with all the details he knows about me as the camera pans the narrow street, winning glares from tourists and locals alike.

When someone opens a door, the videographer asks about me, but the man brushes him off and retreats.

The videographer r ounds the corner. He takes a few steps in one direction, then does an about-face to head the other way, as if he’s lost in the cobbled streets.

As he passes Via della Luce again, he swings the lens back for one more look at my building…

just as Marco is walking inside, cookie bag in hand.

The videographer yells and races down, but the door shuts before he gets there. After some cursing, the videographer says to his audience. “I’m going to post a photo of that man from this clip. If anyone knows him, please leave his name in the comments. He ripped my shirt when he grabbed me.”

Bullshit. The videographer is just trying to get a lead on Marco. Fortunately, this is just some random guy who fancies himself a crime reporter. His blog traffic barely hits double digits.

That’s when I see the comment section. Other blogs – amateur and otherwise – ask whether they can post the video. The videographer requested links instead, and they obliged. In a few hours, the video has gotten five thousand views.

I’m scrolling through comments when I reach one that says, “I know that guy.”

His name is Marco Alessi. He works for Romulus Tours.

I did too, until he ratted me out for flirting with the tourists.

Like he doesn’t do the same. I was too much competition for him.

That woman you’re asking about is his girlfriend.

She goes by Genevieve, like you said. She joined a few times when a group of guides went for drinks.

He likes to show her off. I always wondered why – she’s pretty enough but nothing special.

Now I know. He was pleased with himself for dating the whore who screwed Colt Gordon.

I hope you bring them both down. Anything I can do, just ask.

The guy leaves his email address, which includes his first name: Giacomo.

I know Giacomo. Marco did indeed report him to the tour company and had been instrumental in getting Giacomo fired, but only because Marco had agreed to complain on behalf of his fellow guides.

Giacomo says Marco accused him of doing something that Marco himself does.

Partly true. Marco said Giacomo gave tour guests his phone number with invitations to coffee, which is roughly how Marco and I met.

The difference? I’m twice the age of the clients Giacomo targeted.

Also, Marco really did want a coffee and conversation.

The high-school girls who called Giacomo back showed up at the “cafe” address to find Giacomo’s apartment instead.

I’m so busy being outraged that it takes a moment to realize Marco has just been identified as my lover. His name and place of employment are online in an article that is gaining traction by the second.

I start flipping through comments. Random people triumphantly announce that they’ve notified his employer.

Someone found his address and posted that.

Another posted his email. Then his cell-phone number.

Finally, there’s a link to an Italian tabloid news site.

When I click it, Marco’s face fills the screen.

It’s his professional headshot from the tour operator’s site.

I took it myself. Marco sits on the steps of the Fontaine de la place Santa Maria.

He’s grinning at me, his real smile, his dark eyes alight.

He looks gorgeous and charming and personable all at once.

It’s no wonder Romulus Tours put it right on their website landing page.

Looking for a tour guide? How about this guy?

Now that picture has been stolen and plunked onto an article identifying Marco as the “longtime lover” of the n otorious Lucy Callahan.

As I read, my stomach drops. Representatives from Romulus Tours confirm they are “reevaluating” his employment, as is the bike-courier service he works for.

The tabloid is looking for anyone associated with Marco, particularly past girlfriends.

There’s a video, too. They caught Marco coming home.

The reporter asks for a statement, and when Marco turns to the camera, his gaze is colder than I’ve ever seen it.

“No comment.”

He says it in Italian and then English and then slams the door in the reporter’s face. I rewind and freeze on Marco’s face in that moment before he responds, and my eyes fill with tears.

Marco got his own personal glimpse of hell today. A peek into a world where he could lose his job, his credibility, his self-respect and his privacy. All because his girlfriend apparently played him for a fool.

He had no idea who I was, and now he’s being cast as the hot-but-dumb-as-dirt lover of a scheming murderess.

He could pretend he knew all along and suffer for that.

He could also play to type and admit his ignorance, but there is nothing worse for Marco than being dismissed as an empty-headed pretty boy.

Tears well as I touch his face on the screen.

I’m sorry, Marco. I am so, so sorry.

He called me this morning. Tried desperately to get in touch with me, and I couldn’t even bother sending a “Talk later.”

I shouldn’t have let myself get too distracted to reply. I should have emailed as soon as I realized I couldn’t call him. He has no way of knowing that I desperately wanted to get in touch. All he knows is that I didn’t.

I open my email to send something. Instead, I find a message from him, and my breath catches.

Gen,

I know what’s happening over there. We need to talk. Give me a # where I can reach you. Please.

xx Marco

I stare at that email, and I can barely breathe. I blink, as if I’m seeing wrong. I reread, as if I’ve misunderstood. I even check the address, as if it might be a prank. It isn’t. Marco is confused, but he wants to talk. He hasn’t slammed the door. I have not completely lost him.

That’s when I see the time stamp. Four hours ago. After the initial videographer, but before everything went to hell, his life exposed online.

Would you still send those kisses, Marco?

I want to believe the answer is yes while recognizing I’m probably delusional. Still, I respond to the email.

Marco,

I’m sorry. That seems weak and trite. I wish I could be there, wish I could find the right words or at least let you see just how sorry I am.

I should have told you the truth. I can defend myself and say that I never lied to you – that we don’t discuss our pasts – but that’s an excuse.

When Isabella summoned me to NYC, I should have told you everything.

I planned to earlier today and then… Well, then Isabella called me to switch our lunch to breakfast, and I learned of her death.

I’m being framed. Maybe I’m naive, but I don’t honestly think I’d go to prison. I just need to figure things out before I turn myself in, and I pray it won’t even come to that, that they’ll find the real killer first.

I’m not hiding from the police as much as from the media.

I can’t have those arrest photos in the news, Marco.

I know too well that is a stain that never comes out.

I think you’re getting a taste of that hell, and I am so, so sorry.

All I can say is that I did not kill Isabella, and the truth will come out. I will fix this. For both of us.

For now, though, I can’t drag you into it. I don’t have my cell, so there’s no point calling or texting. You shouldn’t respond to this email, either. The less communication we have, the better it is for you. I will come home, and I will explain everything.

In the meantime, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

xx Gen

I hit Send and hurry from the laundromat.

I’m putting away my phone when I see that I received an email just as I was disconnecting the Wi-Fi. It’s a stub, nothing downloaded except my name and the subject line: “We need to talk.”

I can still reach the Wi-Fi signal, so I reconnect, my heart thudding. I’m certain it’s Marco. While the martyr in me wants to protect him, the real me will leap at any excuse to communicate. I open the email, and it’s from Daniel Thompson, the lawyer who was going to turn me in to the police.

LC,

I apologize for the misunderstanding earlier today. Your mother was kind enough to give me your email address when I explained the situation. I truly believe I am your best chance of avoiding these outrageous charges. Please allow me to prove that to you.

I let out a stream of profanity that makes a passing woman veer away. I call a soft, “Sorry!” but she only walks faster.

I channel my anger into a very brief response. Only two words, initials F and O .

Before I can disconnect, Thompson responds with:

LOL. Okay, I deserved that. Since we’re being a little more casual in our correspondence: I screwed up. Give me another shot. No bullshit this time.

I linger over this glimpse of the guy behind that billboard-ready smile. The snake-oil salesman who’s willing to admit he sells snake oil. The question, of course, is whether he actually has any product worth buying… or just another bottle of mineral oil laced with fragrant herbs.

You got me, ma’am. I can tell you’re a discerning customer. I usually keep this under the counter, but for you… Wink-wink. Here’s the real stuff.

I’m about to close my email when he sends another one.

There’s absolutely no point in me taking on a case I don’t think I can win. It’s like a minor-league pitcher trick-balling a scout. It might pay off in the short term, but they’re going to figure it out, and then you’re out of a job. If you’re concerned about my ability to represent you:

A list of links follows. I click the first. It takes me to a first-degree murder case Thompson successfully defended. T he next is the same. I don’t bother with the rest. He’s a good lawyer. He just isn’t above lowball tactics to bolster his career… even at his clients’ expense.

I send back a politer response.

I’m sorry, but no. I need someone I can trust. I can’t give three strikes on that.

A reply comes moments later.

Understood. But I’m not convinced it’s batter out just yet. I won’t bother you again, but I am still here if you need me. You have my work number. Here’s my private one. This is also a private email address, should you have any questions. I believe I owe you that much.

I send back a thank you and log off.

Sleep is a bullet train to hell. That night, I am arrested five times and murdered twice. And once I do the murdering – I’m in Isabella’s room, with her begging for her life as I rant about how she ruined my life before I smash her head into the tiled step.

I wake from that, gasping and clawing at the sheets. The smell of mildew hits, and I shove the sheets away, only to catch other scents, ones I’d been too preoccupied to notice earlier. The stink hits me, throwing me back through memories to another hotel room, another time waking from nightmares…